


How To Rule The World

by Sesquedoodle



Category: Grand Theft Auto V, Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-typical language, Drug Use, Fake AH Crew, Female Jack, GTA AU, Gen, Heists, Origin Story, based loosely on the heist videos, criminals, they will get better, they're not very competent criminals, trans lady Jack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-04-19 01:57:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4728491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sesquedoodle/pseuds/Sesquedoodle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Geoff Ramsey is a man with a vision. One day he will be the most powerful crime lord in Los Santos, heading the most successful gang ever known. It's too bad all he has to work with are a demolitions expert with an explosive temper, a perpetually stoned sharpshooter, England's most inept thief, and a murderer in a skull mask. And Jack, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sound of Sirens

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into this fandom! And RPF in general, even though I always thought I'd never write any. The inspiration was just too much to resist. It's taken me a lot of courage to post this, so I hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> Massive thanks to Hexephra for beta-reading. :)

 

The car swerves around the corner with a screech of tires and a trail of smoke. It's followed by two police cars, sirens wailing, flashing lights turning the dark street red and blue. Gunfire echoes from the police cars. Their quarry weaves dangerously to avoid the bullets. There's a sharp, metallic clang as several embed themselves in the trunk.

Cursing, Geoff leans out of the passenger window and returns fire. He ducks back inside the car to reload only moments before a bullet hits the back window. The sound of shattering glass cuts high and cold, and the car swerves again, this time weaving uncertainly between lanes before making a hard left into an underpass.

Geoff fires again, grinning as he sees the police cars falling behind. He laughs – a staccato, high pitched laugh that matches the burst of gunfire. “See you later, cocksuckers!” he yells.

"They still following?" Jack doesn't even glance behind her. Her eyes are focused on the road ahead, her hands white-knuckled as she grips the steering wheel.

"Ohhhh yeah." Geoff loads another clip into his pistol with practised ease, though his eyes dart around nervously as he checks the surroundings for more pursuers.

"Shit." Jack's voice is calm, her mouth set in a hard line. The serious expression absolutely does not match the brightly patterned Hawaiian shirt she's wearing.

The underpass ends and they're back in the open air. Exposed. They speed down the street, passing neon signs and startled pedestrians. It's dark, but the lights of the city are almost as bright as daylight. Sirens blare as the police cars follow them. Again,Geoff takes aim. Almost immediately a blast of return fire comes his way. He ducks down moments before the bullets strike the car's chassis. His heart pounds, the beat echoing in his eardrums almost as loudly as the impact.

"Fuck! Jack, I'm gonna need you to get us the hell out of here!"

"Working on it!" Jack spins the wheel sharply and the car swings to the right. It rides up on the curb and clips a street light. There is a scream from a pedestrian and a burst of swearing from the front seat as the car starts to spin out - then she regains control and they're off down a side street.

This street is narrower, lined with parked cars that Jack is barely able to avoid hitting, but the cops are having just as much trouble. Another couple of turns into different streets and the police are falling behind.

Geoff fires a couple more times, just for good measure, then slumps back into his seat with a sigh.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, as he picks a piece of broken glass from his hair and flicks it out of the car window. Similar pieces litter the sleeves of his black suit, the city lights glinting off them in a way that makes it look like he's made some unfortunate decisions regarding sequins. This suit has seen better days. The jacket is torn in a number of places and his bow tie is missing – presumably lying somewhere on the side of the road, he thinks bitterly.

"I wouldn't relax just yet, Geoff." Jack's zig-zag route through the city has almost doubled back on itself, and the sirens are still wailing incessantly. They're back on one of the main streets now, tearing through a red light. She makes another turn that sends Geoff's shoulder slamming into the passenger door, and suddenly the car is rattling towards the freeway on-ramp.

"Is this a good idea?" Geoff exclaims as the car plunges into traffic and narrowly misses colliding with a convertible.

"You want to put some distance between us and them, don't you?" Jack retorts.

The driver of the convertible screams insults at them as they speed away. They're heading north, weaving in and out of traffic at a speed that (Geoff has to admit) would be disastrous if the driver was anyone but Jack. Even so, the left side of the hood doesn't have much paint left on it.

The sirens are still following them, but growing quieter as they leave the city behind, and for a moment Geoff thinks they've got away. Then another cuts in, louder, and they see that the blue and red flashing lights are in front of them as well as behind.

"Oh, shit," Jack mutters. There are no ramps leading off the freeway here, nothing but a steep drop on either side of the road, and no way of turning back without driving straight into the cars pursuing them.

"You have got to be kidding me! When did the LSPD get so fucking persistent?" Geoff readies his gun and takes aim at the flashing lights in front, but Jack shakes her head.

"Buckle up."

Geoff gets about as far as, "Wait, what - ?" before Jack yanks the wheel sharply to the right. The car swerves across the freeway and crashes through the railing at the side as Geoff grabs desperately for his seatbelt.

For one moment it feels like they're suspended in mid-air. Geoff's stomach rises up into his throat. It's like being at the very top of a roller coaster. Then they're falling, the car tipping forward –

They hit the bank below them front wheels first, with a deafening crunch of metal. Geoff is jerked forward, sharply - something hits him, pain flashes through his skull like lightning – and then they're spinning out, Jack struggling to maintain control of the vehicle. They tilt dangerously sideways, the car threatening to flip upside down. Geoff grips the sides of his seat so hard that his fingernails are nearly making holes in the cushions. The wheels crash back down with a jolt that nearly sends him through the windshield. The car slides down the bank, metal scraping against earth, bouncing off rocks, until finally it reaches level ground, runs out of momentum, and comes to an incredibly undignified stop.

Neither of them say anything until the sound of sirens has faded away into the distance. Jack is the first to speak. "You okay?" she says, her voice sounding hoarse and shaken.

Geoff gives this some thought. "I think so," he ventures. He moves gingerly - it hurts like hell, but nothing seems to be broken. "Feels like I've bruised just about everything." There's something warm and wet on the side of his face. He brushes it away with the back of his hand - yup, definitely blood; that much is clear even this far away from the lights of the highway. It doesn't seem to be flowing heavily, though. He looks up and notices the windshield is shattered. That would explain it. "How about you?"

"Bunch of cuts, bunch of scrapes - nothing too bad, I think."

"Fucking hell." Geoff laughs, out of relief more than anything else. "You think you might give me a little more warning next time you drive me off a fucking cliff?"

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?"

Geoff can’t argue with that.

Jack unclips her seatbelt. "So, what's our take?"

"Let's find out." There’s a sports bag stashed on the back seat. Geoff didn’t have time to count the money when he was fleeing the crime scene. He twists around – _Christ_ , that hurts; he doesn't want to think about how it's going to feel tomorrow - to look for it and eventually finds it on its side in the footwell. He lifts it up and pulls it into the front seat, dumping it on the gearshift, and - grinning with pride - unzips it.

It doesn't take long at all to count the contents.

"We've got..." Geoff's face falls, "About eight hundred dollars."

"That's it?" Jack's expression is hard to read, but her voice sounds as disappointed as Geoff feels.

"That's it."

"Fuck."

There's silence for a while. This time, it's Geoff who breaks it.

"We have got to stop robbing convenience stores."

***

It's two hours later, and they're sitting in a dive bar somewhere in the Grand Senora Desert. By Jack's rough calculations, repairing their car is going to take up most of the proceeds from the robbery, and Geoff seems intent on drinking his way through the rest.

"I mean, it hardly seems worth it, y'know?" Geoff remarks to the world at large as he downs the remainder of a glass of whiskey. "We go to all this effort, all this fuckin' crashing and glacking and getting glacked at, cops up our fucking _assholes_ , and for what? Not even a thousand fucking dollars."

"Keep your voice down, will you?" Jack glances around to see if anyone has taken notice of Geoff's rant. The bar is pretty quiet this late at night, and the other clientele seem like pretty shady sorts themselves – as torn up as it is, Geoff's suit still stands out as too swanky for this place – but Jack would rather not take chances after such a narrow getaway.

"All I'm saying is," Geoff signals to the bartender to bring fresh drinks, "how's a guy supposed to make an honest living like this?"

Jack refrains from pointing out that their work isn't exactly honest.

The bartender puts another two glasses of whiskey in front of them. Geoff slides him a twenty. "Makes me sick sometimes, it really does. All that trouble for nothing." He scratches at the bandage taped to his forehead.

"I wish you'd let Caleb take a look at that," Jack says. She's done her best with the first aid kit she keeps in the glove compartment, but their associate has much better medical training – and more importantly, is used to keeping his mouth shut regarding criminals with injuries they don't want to explain. Geoff has vetoed the idea, though, insisting that it isn't _that_ bad a cut and they don't need to bother Caleb for something so trivial, and besides, their time would be much better spent having a drink to calm their nerves. Jack is too tired to argue, and to be honest she can see the appeal of Geoff's suggestion.

"It's a hard line of work," she continues, "but you knew that when we started this, didn't you? I mean, no risk, no reward."

"If there was any decent reward, we wouldn't be having this conversation." Geoff takes a drink and grimaces. "Or drinking this shitty-ass whiskey."

Jack catches the look the bartender shoots them. It's not a nice look. "Say that a little louder, why don't you?"

"I don't know, Jack," says Geoff, taking no notice. "It makes me wonder what the whole point is, you know?"

Jack takes a drink - Geoff is right, this stuff is awful - and looks shrewdly at her partner in crime. "You're not thinking of giving this up, are you?"

" _What?_ " Geoff's voice shoots up about half an octave and he sits up straight, instantly transforming from despondent to outraged. "Like _hell_ I'm giving this up! I'm gonna be the fucking _king_ of Los Santos someday. You just wait and see."

Jack chuckles. "I thought so."

"Jesus, how could you even _say_ that?" Geoff continues. "No, if anything we need to think bigger. Hit some bigger targets."

"Like what? Maze Bank?"

"Sure! Why not?"

Well, it isn't as though the thought hasn't crossed Jack's mind too, but she suspects it's not that simple. "We're nearly getting ourselves killed hitting convenience stores. What do you think is gonna happen if we hit a bank?"

"Yeah, but we've always survived, haven't we? It's like you said, Jack. No risk, no reward, right? We just need to tweak the ratio so we make a decent profit." Geoff grins.

Jack looks him in the eyes. "You're really serious about this, aren't you?"

"I've never been more serious in my life." Geoff's swaying a little, tired, unshaven, his eyes half open and bleary with drunkenness, dried blood caked on the side of his face - and yet somehow, God help her, Jack believes him.


	2. Land of the Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gavin arrives in Los Santos and immediately gets in over his head. But what else did he expect, really?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a ridiculous amount of time to write, for some reason, but here it is! Once again, thanks to Hexephra for beta reading and awesome advice in general.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are now arriving at Los Santos International Airport. The local time is now three twenty-eight P.M. On behalf of Air Herler, we'd like to thank you for flying with us and hope you enjoy your destination."

If Gavin is sure of anything after the last eleven hours, it's that he hates flying coach.

He stumbles off the plane, tired, aching, and disorientated, fighting the feeling that it should not be the middle of the afternoon. He's standing by the baggage claim, watching the conveyor belt circle, when the thought he's spent the entire flight avoiding thinking about finally surfaces, and that thought is: what the bloody hell does he do now?

He has two changes of clothing, his laptop, about two hundred quid in his wallet, and a passport bearing the name Mark Nutt. He has no place to stay, no job, and no plan. No way back, either. The one thing he's sure of is that going back to England would basically be suicide.

He yawns, running a hand through his already disheveled sandy brown hair, and considers that at some point in the past... thirty-six hours, he may have made some poor life choices.

Well, he's always been good at improvising, and if he can't go back, he'll have to move forward. The first step, he thinks, as he lunges forward to grab his bag before it goes past, is to get out of the airport without getting arrested.

The bird at customs is about forty, with severe makeup and an even more severe hairstyle, and looks utterly disinterested as he hands her his passport and visa. Nevertheless, he feels the back of his neck prickle with sweat. Just relax, he tells himself; it's going to be fine. It had better be fine - he'd paid enough money for the bloody thing that it ought to be perfect.

"What is the purpose of your trip?" she asks in a monotone voice.

"Just a bit of sightseeing. You know, the whole Vinewood Star Tours thing." He flashes her a cheerful smile, playing the innocent tourist. It's something of a wasted effort, as she barely glances at him while she flicks through his passport.

"And how long are you planning on visiting?"

"Three weeks."

"I see. And where will you be staying?"

"The Rockford Hotel. I've got the reservation with me if you want to check it." He reaches into his jeans pocket, hoping he's judged her right - she's bored, she asks these questions a thousand times a day, she probably wants him out of here as quickly as possible...

The woman shakes her head. "No, that won't be necessary, thank you." She pushes his documents back towards him. "Enjoy your vacation."

"Cheers, love. I mean, ma'am."

He probably could afford to stay at the Rockford, but only if the majority of his money wasn't in a UK bank account that was probably frozen by now, all things considered. Instead, he leaves the airport (that's step one taken care of, he thinks to himself) hops in the nearest taxi, and asks the driver if he knows a decent motel.

God, he hopes Dan made it out okay. What he really wants to do is call him and find out, but it's probably better for both of them to just lay low for a while.

The taxi speeds through the bright, sunlit streets of Los Santos (on the wrong side of the road, of course) and eventually stops by a shabby little building surrounded by other shabby buildings - the main difference being that this one has a neon sign in the window reading "vacancies". Well, at least it'll be cheap. Probably. Gavin has a feeling that even cheap things are expensive here.

He pays the driver, saunters into the motel, and books a room for the night. If the receptionist thinks it's strange that he pays in cash, she doesn't let it show - but then this looks like a place that's used to strange things. She doesn't ask him any questions, which is good enough for Gavin.

He climbs the three narrow flights of stairs to his room, unlocks the door, and enters. What he sees pretty much matches his expectations. The room is small, the single bed shoved against the wall to maximise the available space, the wallpaper looks like it's from 1973, and there's a faintly baffling smell of stale biscuits and engine oil. There's a door that he thinks might be a built-in wardrobe but which upon investigation turns out to be the bathroom - which in this case means a toilet, sink, and shower somehow crammed into a space approximately the size of a phone box.

Well, it could probably be worse.

The fatigue from the long flight is starting to overtake him. He dumps his bag on the floor, closes the blinds on the one, small window, kicks off his Converse, flops down on the bed (causing the springs to creak threateningly) and closes his eyes.

***

When he wakes, it's pitch black, save for the street lights filtering through the blinds. He can hear the sound of traffic, and sirens - the latter sound makes his heart rise into his throat, even though he knows they're probably nothing to do with him. He wonders if it's the noise that woke him.

What time is it? He reaches over and digs through his bag until he finds his phone. The screen glows brightly in the dark room and makes him squint, but after a moment his vision adjusts enough for him to see that it's 2.45 AM. Ugh, his sleep schedule is going to be so fucked up. Stupid bloody jet lag.

There's something else. A new message. It's from Dan.

_Gone to ground. Heard they're looking for you though. Best of luck, mate._

Gavin lets out a breath that he was unaware he was holding. So Dan's alive - and hiding, apparently. The rest is more or less as he expected.

Dan is taking a pretty big risk contacting him - they could be being monitored somehow; Gavin can't be certain. It would be completely moronic for him to reply. For all Gavin knows, the whole thing could be a trap.

Still, he quickly types a reply - _you too_ \- and hits send.

Then he turns the phone off.

It's still dark when he leaves the motel, but he can't sleep and can't stand being cooped up in the tiny room any longer. He wanders the streets aimlessly, never stopping, barely even paying attention to where he's going. As the sun rises, he finds himself by the waterfront. The beach is empty, except for the occasional homeless person sleeping on a bench, and the only sounds are the waves, the seagulls, and the distant traffic. Even the fairground rides on the pier are silent this early in the morning.

Gavin walks out along the pier, in between the great metal contraptions and gaudily painted sideshows, and leans against the railing, staring at the dark water below. Slowly, the sky grows lighter as sunlight filters through the smog and buildings behind him.

He sighs. "Bollocks."

He takes the phone out of his pocket and chucks it in the water. It vanishes with a disappointingly small splash. It's not like it’s going to be any use to him now.

***

Gavin spends most of the first week getting to know Los Santos. He buys a cheap, pay-as-you-go phone, but since he has no one to call here he mostly uses it to take selfies. On a whim, he nicks a pair of mirrored sunglasses from a souvenir shop and feels the familiar thrill as his hand closes around them. He turns away from the shop owner, pretending to examine a baseball cap with "Welcome To Los Santos" emblazoned on it, and slips the sunglasses inside his shirt with practised ease. The shopkeeper doesn't even notice as he walks confidently away. It's been awhile since he's stolen something as small as a pair of glasses, he thinks as he puts them on (a safe distance from the shop), but it still gives him the same rush. It's the excitement of getting away with something, the thrill of not getting caught.

He catches sight of his reflection in a car window. He looks pretty damn good in sunglasses, if he says so himself.

Halfway through the second week his money runs out.

He's been making some cash by nicking stuff from shops and selling it on, but it's small change, really - not enough. The motel charges by the night, and when he can't afford it any longer he checks out.

Well, he thinks, this is bloody brilliant. Not even two weeks here and he's going to end up sleeping on somebody's doorstep. So much for the land of opportunity. At least it's a lot dryer here than in England.

Another week goes by and he's sitting in some shitty, hole-in-the-wall diner early in the morning, drinking the worst cup of tea he's ever had, just so he has an excuse to be indoors. He doesn't actually have enough money to pay for the tea, so he's eyeing the door and planning his escape – which means he's staring right at the two people who walk in.

“I'm telling you, Jack,” one of them is saying, “it's gonna work. We can fucking do this.” He's somewhere in his thirties, maybe forties, wearing a shabby black suit. What draws Gavin's attention first is the bloodstained bandage on his forehead, followed by the bulge in his jacket that Gavin is pretty sure is a gun. Gavin quickly makes a show of examining his mug of tea, then continues to look at the newcomers out of the corner of his eye.

“I'm not disputing that.” The other one – Jack – is a woman, bigger than the bloke in just about every dimension, with chin-length ginger hair and a Hawaiian shirt. “I'm just saying we need a better plan.”

“What's wrong with my plan?” They sit down a couple tables away from Gavin. A waitress walks over to take their order.

“Well, for a start,” says Jack, once the waitress has gone, “you came up with it after about five whiskeys, no sleep, and a concussion.”

“I keep telling you, I'm not concussed!”

“Fine, a _probable_ concussion. We still can't rob Maze Bank using flare guns.”

“It doesn't have to be Maze bank.”

“Geoff, you're – you're missing the point here.”

Geoff rolls his eyes theatrically. “All right, fine. No flare guns. Do you have any better ideas?”

“Well, first off, we've got to get the car fixed – God knows how much that's gonna cost.”

“And whose fault is that, dumbass?”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.” They both go quiet as the waitress approaches with their order – two coffees, a sandwich, and a burger. She sets the tray down between them and walks away. For a while neither of them speak, due to being too busy eating and drinking. Gavin tries not to stare with envy at the burger. He hasn't had much to eat during the past couple of days. He kind of wishes they'd start talking again, though. He's curious about Geoff's plan for the flare guns.

“Okay,” says Jack, swallowing a mouthful of coffee. “We get the car fixed, then we'll need to do some recon. Figure out exactly what we're dealing with.”

“I bet Lester'll know. Creepy little asshole's probably got surveillance footage of every building in the city. Then what?”

“That kind of depends on the security, doesn't it? But we'll definitely need to hire some more people.”

“Yeah, probably. How many people does it take to rob a bank?”

Jack glances around uneasily. “You know, we probably shouldn't talk about this in public.”

“Why, worried about the waitress?” Geoff grins. “Nobody in this part of town gives a shit.”

“Really? Because that kid over there's been staring at us since we came in.”

_Shit._

Gavin legs it. He leaps to his feet, knocking over his mug in the process, and bolts for the door. There's hot tea soaking through his jeans and he can hear shouts behind him, but he doesn't bother to look around. He gets a few meters down the street before he hears a deafeningly loud bang – a gunshot, he realises, as he instinctively flattens himself against a wall. There are footsteps behind him – he starts running again and ducks quickly into an alleyway. He has no idea where he's going, but that doesn't matter right now.

He's not quick enough. Someone grabs him by his shirt collar. He squeals as he's shoved roughly against a wall.

They're both there, and neither of them look happy. The woman – Jack – is the one holding him. The man reaches forward, pressing something against the underside of Gavin's jaw and _oh shit that's an actual gun help._

“I didn't hear anything!” he says, only it comes out as more of a squeak. “Honestly!”

“Bull-fucking-shit,” Geoff snarls. “Why'd you run, then?”

“Okay, maybe I did hear something, but I wasn't listening on purpose, you were just talking kind of loudly – ” What are you doing, he thinks to himself, don't insult the bloke with the gun, idiot!

Jack looks sideways at Geoff. "Told you."

"Yeah, yeah, shut up," Geoff mutters. He presses the gun barrel a little more intently against Gavin's chin. "It's pretty fucking rude to eavesdrop on people, kid, did nobody ever tell you that? Leads to shit like _getting your brains splattered across the fucking wall._ "

"No!" Gavin yelps. He squirms, trying to angle his face away from the gun - like that's going to help anything. "Look, I'm not going to tell anyone anything - it's none of my business, right? Nothing to do with me, wherever you're planning on robbing - or whatever you were talking about - look, _please_ don't shoot me in the face, all right?"

"Geoff." Jack's voice is low and urgent. "Geoff, he's just a kid."

"He looks old enough to be taught a fucking lesson," says Geoff, but he lowers the gun just a fraction of an inch. To Gavin, that tiny amount feels like a vast distance. He finds himself suddenly able to breathe again.

Then Geoff’s arm swings around and the side of the pistol crashes against Gavin’s cheekbone.

Pain erupts across the side of his face and he swears he really _does_ see stars. If not for Jack holding him up he would have fallen sideways with the force of the blow.

“You’re not worth the bullet, kid,” Geoff says.

Jack releases her grip, letting him slumps to the ground.

Gavin leans against the wall, clutching his head. His ears are ringing and he feels so dizzy he thinks he might throw up. Slowly, his vision swims back into focus enough for him to see Geoff turn and walk away. Jack follows after a second. The relief Gavin feels at seeing them go is almost exhilarating. Sure, he's in pain, his sunglasses are cracked, and he's pretty sure he's missing a tooth, but he’s not dead. That’s definitely one of the better outcomes.

Maybe it’s relief that makes him say what he says next, maybe it’s the head injury, or maybe it’s just sheer stupidity.

“You need at least four people, by the way.”

Geoff turns. “Excuse me?”

“For a bank job, I mean.” Gavin immediately wishes he hadn’t spoken, but he doesn’t seem able to prevent himself from continuing. “I mean, for a small bank, you’d maybe get away with two, but for somewhere bigger like Maze you want at least two blokes keeping an eye on hostages while someone else handles the vault, and the vault guy'll probably want backup in case any guards come along. So yeah, that’s four people, absolute minimum.”

“And you know a lot about bank robbery, do you?” Jack’s voice is absolutely dripping with sarcasm.

“I’ve done a few, yeah,” Gavin snaps back, pride stung despite everything he’s been through in the last five minutes. Two counted as a few, right? Even if the last one was a bit of a cock-up?

Geoff and Jack look at each other for a moment, and then Geoff steps forward. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Gavin Free.” He looks up in confusion. It takes him a moment to realise that Geoff is holding out his hand. Unsure of what’s happening, he tentatively reaches out and takes it. Geoff yanks him roughly to his feet.

“Congratulations, Gavin.” Geoff grins widely. “You just got hired.”


	3. Questionable Hiring Practices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geoff and Jack conduct a job interview.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my beta, Hexephra!

“Geoff,” says Jack, “Are you sure you know what you're doing?”

Geoff looks up at her innocently. “Of course. You think I've never made coffee before?”

“That's not what I meant, and you know it.”

They’re in the kitchen of their shared apartment. Geoff is, in fact, making a pot of coffee. There are three cups on the counter – one for each of them, and one for their guest. If “guest” is the right word. Gavin hadn't seemed particularly happy to be offered a job, and he'd been downright terrified when Geoff had insisted he come with them to discuss the details. Jack is pretty sure she is now participating in a kidnapping.

Which might not be a bad way to make money, come to think of it, but only if there was someone who would actually pay a ransom for the hostage. Since the kid looked like he’d been sleeping rough, Jack doubted it.

“We don’t know  anything about him,” she says. “We don’t know who he is, or where he came from -”

“Going by the accent, I'm gonna say he's British.”

“Be serious, Geoff.” Jack rolls her eyes. “He could be a cop, or working for another gang, anything - and you offer him a job just like that?  And bring him back to the apartment?”

Geoff shrugs. “We needed to hire  someone , and here he is. He knows about bank robbery -”

“So he says,” interjects Jack.

“ -  and he’s desperate enough to take the job.” Geoff grins. “Sometimes coincidences happen for a reason, Jack.”

“No they don’t! That’s why they’re coincidences!”

“Pfft, whatever.” Geoff pours the coffee. “Besides, if he's part of the team, he can't go ratting us out, can he?”

“That's another thing,” says Jack. “Do you really think he's going to  want to work with us after you smashed his face in earlier?”

“Hey, I'm offering him a pretty good deal. He does the job and gets paid, or bad stuff happens.” Geoff laughs. “The kid was practically shitting his pants  before I hit him. He'll believe anything I say now.”

“That's – ” Jack thinks about it for a second. “Actually, that's pretty well thought out.”

“Don't sound so surprised.”

Jack still isn't a hundred percent confident, but she supposes Geoff has some idea of what he's doing. It isn't like he can make things a whole lot worse – they already have an injured British man in their living room. Speaking of which...

She opens the freezer and grabs a bag of frozen peas. “Well, I'm going to go make sure you haven't killed your new recruit.”

“I didn't hit him  that  hard. He'll be fine as soon as he stops whining.”

Jack marches back to the living room. Gavin is lying on the couch, a hand over his face. Jack is pretty sure she hears him whimpering.

“Here.” She tosses the bag of frozen peas at him. It hits him in the shoulder and bounces off. Gavin jumps, looking alarmed, and Jack immediately feels a little guilty. “Put it on your face, it'll help with the swelling.”

“Thanks.” Gavin looks at her warily, as though anticipating some trick. His face is pretty messed up – there's a nasty looking cut on his right cheekbone, and that whole side of his face is already red and swollen. She hopes Geoff didn't hit him hard enough to break anything.

Gavin presses the bag against his face, wincing a little but apparently satisfied that she doesn't have any ulterior motives. “Your mate's a bloody lunatic, do you know that?” There's a bitter edge to his voice.

“Yeah.” Jack flops into an armchair. It's been God knows how many hours since she last slept, and her body is starting to make its complaints known. “Yeah, he pretty much is.”

“So, uh...” says Gavin after a few moments of silence. “What exactly are you planning on doing with me?” The tremor in his voice gives him away – there's the fear that Geoff is banking on, albeit hidden under a layer of anger. Jack has to give Gavin some credit for trying to hide it.

“Like Geoff said, we've got a job you might be able to help us with. Though why he wants to hire you, I have no idea.”

Gavin shifts uncomfortably, propping himself up on one elbow. “And what happens if I don't want to work for you?”

“Then we stop treating you so nicely.” Geoff enters with a tray of drinks, which he puts down on the coffee table. “For a start.”

“Nicely!” Gavin exclaims – Jack notices with amusement that he shares Geoff's trait of shooting up in pitch when agitated. “You hit me in the face with a flipping gun!”

“Yeah, but I was  going to shoot you in the head.” Geoff grins. He picks up a coffee mug, but stays standing as he drinks. “See? I can be nice. Now drink up, kid, you look like you need it.”

Gavin levers himself into a sitting position. “You're  mental ,” he mutters. “Absolutely mental.  And you broke my sunglasses.”

ack takes a long swig of coffee. _This is going to be interesting to watch_ , she thinks.

eoff gives a theatrical sigh. "It's like this. Jack and I are looking to expand our operations, and if what you said earlier is true, you might just have the skills we're looking for. What I'm offering you is the chance to join us in a little adventure, gain valuable experience, and make a fuckton of cash. I don't know about you, but that seems like a win-win situation to me.” He leans forward, looming over Gavin, who shrinks away slightly. “ Or , you could reject the offer, in which case the outcome will be much less pleasant for you. I know which one I'd pick, 's all I'm saying."

Judging by Gavin's expression - the half of it that isn't hidden behind the frozen peas, anyway - he's giving this some thought. "So," he says slowly, "this - this "adventure" you're talking about. You're hitting Maze Bank, right?"

"That's right."

"Why? I mean, why Maze in particular?"

This is something Jack has wondered about too, and she looks expectantly at Geoff. Surprisingly, he doesn't hesitate before answering.

"Because they're the biggest target around. For one thing, that means lots of money. For another... It'll get people's attention." Geoff pauses, his usually sleepy eyes focused and intense. Jack’s reminded of the way he spoke when he first suggested this scheme - he has the same fire in him now, the same certainty that what he's planning will  work , so confident that he's right that she starts to believe it too.

"They're going to  remember  us," Geoff continues, pacing back and forth in front of the coffee table. "If we pull this off, it'll be the heist of the century, but even if we don't, everyone's going to know who we are."

There's silence for a moment. Then Gavin speaks.

"And... that's a  good  thing?"

"Uh,  yeah ?" Geoff looks at him in disbelief. "If you want to get anywhere in life, you need a reputation. I want the whole city to know what we're capable of."

"Right, reputation, yeah. I'd be a little more concerned about the amount of police attention you're going to get. Not to mention anyone else you manage to piss off."

"If you're not pissing people off, you're doing something wrong," Geoff fires back. "Look, nobody's going to mess with the Fake AH Crew after we've robbed the most secure bank in Los Santos."

"Yeah, but that's only if we don't get shot to pieces doing it," says Gavin. "I mean, you. You're robbing the place. Also, what's the Fake AH Crew?"

"Me and Geoff, basically.” Jack cuts in before Geoff can answer. "And I guess you now."

"Oh." Gavin looks preoccupied. "Was there, like, a Real AH Crew?"Jack sighs. "It's a long story.”

“...O- kay .” Gavin says, slowly, not looking any less confused.

“So here's what I want to know,” says Geoff. “You say you've done this sort of job before. What _exactly_ did you do?”

“Recon and surveillance mostly,” Gavin answers. “Plus, you know, general thievery. I can do computer stuff too, and I'm pretty good at locks.” He's still tense, still on edge, but there's pride in his expression now too. Jack guesses he's got too high an opinion of himself to deliberately sell himself short, even if he doesn't actually want them to hire him. Then again, maybe he's decided that trying to impress them is a better idea than appearing useless.

She raises her eyebrows. “Could you get us into the vault?”

Gavin shakes his head. “Nah, not if you're talking about Maze. They're a serious investment bank; they'll have proper high end vaults – you basically can't crack those, so you need some other way to get the doors open, like explosives or a flipping great drill. But smaller stuff, safes and that, I can do.” So he's not so keen to impress them that he'll outright lie about his abilities, Jack thinks.

“Right, so you're no help with the vault,” says Geoff. He gives Gavin a considering sort of look; Jack wonders if he's reached the same conclusions she has. “Still, recon and stuff – might come in useful. Who was it you worked for?”

“You wouldn't know them,” says Gavin. “This was back home – in England, I mean. Bunch of guys needed some extra men for a few jobs, so they brought in me and my mate Dan. Mostly I just sort of freelanced.”

That was pretty vague. Jack frowns. Is he trying to hide something? He's been on edge since Geoff brought him here – no wonder, really – so she can't tell if the topic makes him nervous or if it's just... well, everything. “So why did you come here?” she asks. Maybe she can figure it out that way.

“Huh?” Gavin looks nonplussed at the change of topic.

“Well, I'm guessing you're not in Los Santos for a vacation,” she says dryly.

“Oh.” Gavin doesn't meet her eyes. Embarrassed, maybe? “Things sort of... went a bit wrong.”

_Bingo_ , thinks Jack.

“How wrong?” says Geoff. “Are people looking for you? Because if you're going to bring some kind of trouble down on us – ”

“Well, there's the Metropolitan Police...”

“Hmmm.” Geoff frowns, then looks at Jack. “What do you think?”

Run-ins with the police are more or less a requirement in this line of work. Jack shrugs. “You _did_ say it's important to piss people off.”

“True enough.” He looks back at Gavin. “That's it, then? No one else?”

“No! I mean, not that I know of.” It seems to Jack that Gavin's answer is just a little too quick, his voice a little too bright. He's  definitely  not telling them everything.

She thinks Geoff picks up on it too, because he gives Gavin another long frown. Still, he shrugs. “Eh, good enough. So, you in, kid?"

“I thought I didn't get a choice.”

Geoff laughs. “Good point. Let me rephrase: do you  want in on this?”

Gavin shrugs. “To be honest you had me at 'fuckton of cash'.” He grins, somewhat ruefully.

“Excellent!” Geoff claps him heavily on the shoulder. Gavin nearly drops the bag of rapidly-melting peas.

Jack isn't any more convinced that this is a good idea. But Geoff's not  stupid ; he has to know that Gavin's hiding something. There must be a reason he's still bringing him on board, and right now she's too tired to try and figure it out. She drains the last dregs from her coffee cup and gets to her feet. “If you're done with the bizarro job interview, I'm going to bed.”

Geoff yawns. “Good point. I'm tired as dicks.”

“That's because you've been awake for over twenty-four hours, dumbass,” says Jack. She looks at Gavin. He's still a mess, and damn it, she doesn't trust him, but she's also pretty sure he's going to get himself killed if they kick him out. “You got somewhere to stay, kid?”

“Does outside a convenience store count?”

“No, it does not.” She sighs. It's typical, really. “You’d better stay here tonight. Right, Geoff?”

“Huh?” Geoff is halfway to his bedroom by this point. “Yeah, might as well keep an eye on you. There's food in the fridge and Tylenol in the medicine cabinet if you need it, just don’t touch my whiskey, okay? Then I’d have to kill you.” He laughs to himself as he walks out of the room.

“I can’t tell if he means that or not,” says Gavin, after a long silence.

Jack shrugs. “Probably best not to risk it.”

***

“I'm not going keep telling you this is a bad idea, because I know you won't care, but I'm pretty sure that kid is going to be trouble.”

Jack waits in the hallway, leaning against her bedroom door. She'd much rather be sleeping, but she needs to catch Geoff on his own.

“I thought you were going to bed.” Geoff emerges from the bathroom, clad only in boxers, his impressive collection of tattoos in full view. If he's surprised to see her waiting for him, though, he doesn't show it.

“I am. I just wanted to make sure you knew.”

“You're the one that was getting all maternal around him with your frozen peas and everything,” Geoff points out. “Fuck, you're the one who suggested letting him stay.”

Jack's not going to take his bait. She's too damn tired for this. “It's pretty obvious he's hiding something – someone after him, maybe. Don't pretend you didn't notice it too.”

“We've all got shit we want to leave behind, Jack.” Geoff sighs heavily. “I didn't see any sense in pressing him about it. Now if that's all, I'm going to get some sleep.”

He's obviously not going to budge. “Just remember I told you so,” Jack says. She turns away, goes back into her bedroom and closes the door, but not before she hears his response.

“I always do.”


	4. Keeping Up with the Joneses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindsay and Michael run a business together. It just so happens that their business involves violence and mayhem - not to mention a high level of risk. But business is business, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been a while! Sorry for the delay, for some reason this took forever to edit. As always, thanks to Hexephra for her help.

Michael is extremely angry.

This is more or less a permanent state of existence for him, so it's nothing Lindsay hasn't seen before. Currently the target of his anger is the asshole shooting at them from the catwalk.

“ – and your fucking family, yeah, you heard me, douchebag! Hey, I'm _talking_ to you, asshole! Why don't you stick that piece of shit rifle up your ass and pull the fucking trigger!”

It's impressive how long he can go without taking a breath. Lindsay rolls her eyes and yanks him back behind the crate before he gets his head blown off.

“Finished yet?” she asks, raising her voice over the sound of bullets striking wood.

“No!” Michael growls. With his round, youthful face and curly reddish-brown hair, he looks for all the world like a very angry bear cub. He would be a lot less intimidating if Lindsay hadn't just seen him blow up three men with a well-placed grenade.

“Fucker still needs to pay for what he did!”

“It's just a scratch.” The bullet wound in her thigh is a good deal more than a scratch. Blood wells up between her fingers even as she tries to keep pressure on it, and pain throbs from her hip to her ankle in a way that somehow manages to be dull and sharp at once.

She grimaces and tries again. “You can't make him pay if he shoots you in the face while you're yelling.”

Michael gives a shrug that she knows means grudging acknowledgement.

It was Lindsay's idea to come to the warehouse in the first place

She'd heard from a customer that a drug deal was going down there between the Ballas and the Vagos, and had decided to intercept the package. It would have been easy enough, except that it turned out another gang had the same idea, and the ensuing fight had so far led to six deaths, two destroyed cars, and a bullet in Lindsay's right leg.

“How many are left?” Michael asks, loading another clip into his rifle.

Lindsay risks a quick look. “Two behind that fork-lift, three more to the right, and our friend on the catwalk.”

Michael leans out to fire another round of bullets at the aforementioned sniper. The man gives a cry of pain and falls from the walkway. Michael ducks back behind cover and grins. “You were saying?”

“I love you.”

“Hell yeah you do.” Michael glances at the remaining enemies. “Okay. I'm gonna try and grab the coke.”

“Are you crazy?” Lindsay hisses. “It's completely out in the open!”

“We've been trying to pick them off for like twenty minutes and it's not fucking working! Someone's got to move!”

He has a point. “I'll cover you.” Lindsay cocks her pistol dramatically. She leans forward to kiss Michael's cheek. “Come back safe, babe.”

It's hard to fire a pistol while keeping pressure on a wound at the same time. Lindsay does her best, though, to protect Michael as he dashes across the warehouse to the fallen body of a Vagos drug dealer.

He's back within seconds, a plastic bag under one arm and the other arm over his head, as though that's going to protect him from gunfire.

“I got it! Let's go!” He grabs her arm and pulls her to her feet. She leans heavily on him as they run.

The car is parked a few feet from the warehouse entrance. It's not a huge distance, but every second counts. Lindsay goes as fast as she can but the best she can manage is a sort of hurried stumble. Blood trickles down her calf and pain jolts through her leg with every step. She hears the crack of gunfire behind them and twists around to fire a couple of return shots, but she knows without looking that they're way off target. All she can really do is follow Michael's lead and hope they make it to the car.

“Go, go, go!” Michael yanks open the driver's side door and shoves Lindsay across to the passenger seat before climbing in himself and slamming his foot on the accelerator. They're moving before the door is even shut.

“Fuck!” Michael thumps his hands against the steering wheel as they speed away. “Are you okay?”

“Kinda losing a lot of blood here,” Lindsay says through gritted teeth.

Michael looks over and sees the growing dark red stain on her jeans. “Shit. Hang on, okay? I'm gonna get you to Caleb's.” He turns the wheel sharply. “Keep pressure on it, okay?”

“What do you _think_ I've been doing?” Lindsay snaps. She twists her head around, trying to see behind them. “Are they following us?”

Michael checks his rear-view mirror. “Nope, not without their cars. I'll keep an eye out; they might tell their friends about us.” He gives a sigh of relief. “We did it, though, didn't we?”

“Yes, we did.” Lindsay grins, despite the pain and the light-headedness that's starting to set in. “You were great back there.”

“Hey, so were you, babe,” says Michael. “You got a buyer lined up for this stuff?”

“Potentially – agh – ” Lindsay grimaces again. “If Caleb doesn't take it all as payment.”

“He can have, like, ten percent.”

“That's generous.”

“I'm in a good mood today.”

“From what I heard it's pretty good stuff, but I guess we'll find out – ” Lindsay stops mid-sentence as the tinny sound of pop-punk fills the car.

_This'll be the day we've waited for.  
This'll be the day we –_

“Ugh, one sec.” Her phone is ringing. Why is it ringing? The upbeat ringtone seems incongruous in a speeding car with bullet holes in the chassis and blood staining the upholstery, not to mention the bag of cocaine in the back seat.

She fishes her cell out of her pocket, trying not to cry out when the movement jars her injured leg and ignoring Michael's grumblings of, “Jesus Christ, Lindsay, just ignore it, you've been shot for fuck's sake, who the fuck is even _calling_ right now?”

“Jones Acquisitions and Demolitions, this is Lindsay speaking, how may I help you?” she says, doing her best to sound bright and professional and like she's not in severe pain.

“Yeah, hey, I was told you could get hold of some equipment for me.” The voice on the other end is male, pretty high pitched, probably southern. No one she knows. Well, they can always use new clients.

“We can certainly do that, sir. Exactly what kind of equipment are you looking for?”

He tells her. The stuff he wants could probably go through six inches of metal. Lindsay gives a long, slow whistle.

“At least put him on speaker so you can put the fucking phone down!” Michael complains.

“Is everything all right there?” the voice asks.

“Everything's fine, sir,” says Lindsay, glaring at Michael. “I can definitely get that for you, uh, we're just a little busy right now, if you'd like to leave a name I'll get back to you as soon as possible.”

“It's Ramsey,” says the voice.

“Great! We'll be in touch!”

“Who the fuck was that?” Michael asks as soon as she hangs up. He laughs derisively when she tells him the name. “Ramsey? Like in fucking Game of Thrones?”

“I hope not.” Lindsay groans. Her head is swimming. “Jesus fucking Christ, Michael, this really hurts.”

“I know. Hold on, okay?” Michael's voice softens. “We're almost there. Just hang on a little longer.”

***

Dr. Caleb Denecour has one big advantage over the other back-alley surgeons and drug pushers, and it's that he is – or at least, was – a real doctor. Getting caught stealing prescription medicines to sell on the black market might have cost him his licence to practice, but he knows his field far better than the rest of the unlicensed quacks.

He's not surprised to see Michael barge into his clinic with a badly bleeding Lindsay in tow. That's the other good thing about Caleb: he knows how things work in Los Santos. He works on anyone who can pay him – from any gang, because if anyone can get away with remaining neutral, it's the best unlicensed doctor in the city – and he doesn't ask questions, except for ones like, “Does it hurt when I do this?” or, “When did the symptoms start?” It makes it worth putting up with his extortionately high fees and habit of going through unconscious patients' pockets for loose change.

“You've been extremely lucky,” he tells Lindsay, after patching up her leg. “There's no damage to the bone or the femoral artery, but the bullet tore up a good chunk of muscle. I'll keep an eye on it tonight and you can probably go home tomorrow, but you're not gonna be able to put any weight on that leg for a long time.”

Michael drives her home the next day, along with a pair of crutches, a bottle of oxycodone, and instructions from Caleb to change the dressing daily. He doesn't speak during the entire drive, but once they're finally back in their apartment he wraps his arms tightly around her.

“Don't ever do that to me again,” he murmurs, face pressed against her neck. “Jesus Christ, I thought you were gonna bleed out on me.”

“It got pretty scary for a minute,” Lindsay admits. She pats him on the shoulder, a little awkwardly because she's trying to hold on to her crutches at the same time. “Come on, be a good husband and help me sit down.”

Balancing on crutches is still sort of tricky. With Michael's help she awkwardly hobbles over to the couch. He hovers attentively, propping her up with pillows and blankets and suchlike, getting her a drink, making sure she has everything she needs within reach. Lindsay would be enjoying the attention a lot more if not for the throbbing pain that even drugs have only been able to dull.

She grins weakly. “You're sweet when you're worried about me.”

Michael sits on the arm of the couch. “No I'm not. I'm too badass for that. You're delirious.”

Lindsay laughs. “You can't fool me, Michael Jones. Maybe I should get hurt more often if it gets me this sort of attention.”

“God, don't you fucking dare.” Michael rolls his eyes.

“Then again, you kinda owe me from that time you got stabbed in the arm and couldn't use your right hand for a month.”

“You're never gonna let that go, are you?” Michael says.

“Nope.” Lindsay sighs. “This is going to be a real inconvenience, isn't it? How am I supposed to do business when I'm stuck sitting on the couch for the next month?”

“You're not. You're supposed to rest up,” says Michael. “I can handle the business.”

“No offence, Michael, but you're not exactly a people person,” says Lindsay. Since they started working together it's been her job to handle customers; she's the one with the temperament for it. Michael's role is to build stuff and hurt people. The arrangement has always suited them well.

“What else are we supposed to do?” he asks.

“Just don't start any fights with customers,” says Lindsay. “If you can help it.”

“I can handle it,” Michael says. “Now get some rest, 'kay?”

***

A few days pass. Lindsay quickly gets used to her crutches, and soon she's more or less able to get around the apartment, though she can't remain standing for very long. Michael, true to his word, handles her side of the business – which right now means selling the cocaine on to some other dealer. The guy's insufferably slimy, but Michael manages to get through the meeting without punching anyone and comes home with a sizeable wad of cash.

After that, things slow down. They have a few equipment orders that still need to be built – explosives with more specific requirements than the sticky bombs from Ammunation – and Michael's relieved to be back on more familiar territory. He'd take wiring a bomb over playing nice with some drug dealing hipster any day.

Lindsay stays on the couch for the most part – watching TV and zoning out on painkillers, as far as Michael can tell. It's not until day five that he learns any different. He's working at the kitchen table when the doorbell rings.

“Can you get that?” Lindsay asks from the couch.

“One sec.” The table's covered in wires, circuit boards, and other electronic parts. Michael connects the final wire and slowly lets out a breath. Building a bomb takes a careful touch and a lot of attention. “You expecting someone?”

“Yeah, so remember to be nice.”

“Sure thing.” Michael strides over to the front door and yanks it open the few inches that the security chain will allow. “Whadda ya want?”

Three people are waiting outside the door. One's wearing a black suit with a bow tie. He's not particularly remarkable looking, other than that – scruffy black hair, stubble, and a tired expression. The second visitor is a fat chick with short ginger hair and a Hawaiian shirt. The third is a scrawny guy with a big nose and a bruised face, dressed in a dark shirt and skinny jeans and looking like he really doesn't want to be here. Michael immediately classifies them as douchebags.

“Is Lindsay Jones here?” asks Suit.

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is Geoff Ramsey,” says Suit. “I'm here on business.”

“Let them _in_ , Michael!” calls Lindsay.

Michael feels a twinge of annoyance as he realises Lindsay's been working instead of resting, but he shrugs and unhooks the chain. “She's through there.” He gestures in Lindsay's direction, then walks back to the table. “You actually called him back?” he asks Lindsay.

“Sure. Business is business,” she says.

“What happened to letting me handle things?”

“The number was on my phone. And I was bored.” Lindsay looks up as Ramsey and his cronies walk in. “Hey, welcome to Casa Jones. I'd get up, but...” She points at her leg.

Ramsey shakes her hand. “No problem; good to meet you.”

“What happened to your leg?” Nose blurts out.

Lindsay glares at him. “What happened to your _face_?” she says sarcastically.

“Didn't I tell you to keep your mouth shut?” Ramsey snaps, then turns back to Lindsay, the annoyance in his voice disappearing as he continues smoothly, “Now, about the equipment I need...”

They launch into a discussion of different types of explosives, their uses, costs, and how long it will take Lindsay to acquire them. Michael half-listens as he screws the casing shut on the IED he's building. What he's working on right now could take out a truck, but it sounds like Ramsey wants something with a bit more finesse. No problem there; Michael's blown open enough safes in his life to know how it's done, even if it's not quite as fun as something with a bigger yield.

“So what exactly do you need this for? Safe cracking? Armoured car?” Lindsay grins conspiratorially.

“A bank job,” says Ramsey.

“Thought so. I can have the stuff ready for you in about a week, maybe? Cost you, say, eight thousand?”

Hawaiian Shirt cuts in. “Two thousand now, and another three when we finish the job.”

Lindsay laughs. “Bullshit. I need at least four now, and you can pay the other four when you've robbed the place.”

They'll be haggling for a while, Michael thinks. Hawaiian Shirt handles most of the negotiation, though Ramsey chimes in regularly. Nose doesn't say anything; he seems to have taken Ramsey's instruction to keep his mouth shut seriously. He's looking around though, like he's trying to memorise the layout of the room – or maybe he just wants to leave; he seems pretty nervous. Michael catches him looking his way and scowls.

It doesn't seem to put him off. Nose drifts towards Michael and peers curiously at the assortment of electronics on the table.

“What are you doing?” He has a heavy English accent.

“Working.” Michael gives him another glare.

“My name's Gavin.”

“Do I look like I give a shit?”

Gavin looks offended. “Oh, _that's_ nice. I was just trying to have a conversation.”

“And I'm just trying to work, so fuck off.”

For a few moments Gavin stays silent and Michael thinks he might have taken his advice. Then:

“What's this do?”

“Don't touch that!” Michael slaps Gavin's hand away from the equipment. The table might look a mess, but it's a mess where he knows where things are. “It makes things go boom, okay? Now fucking leave it alone.”

Lindsay and the others look over at them a few times. Michael sees Ramsey ask Lindsay something. Lindsay nods in response.

What they're actually _saying_ Michael doesn't catch, because Gavin is babbling in his ear again. “What's your name? Are you building a bomb, then? Isn't that dangerous?”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Of course it is, dumbass. That's what it's for.”

“Well, yeah, I know that. I meant building it in the kitchen.”

Michael shrugs. “Probably, but this is the only table we've got that's big enough to work at.”

“Michael, come over here, would you?” Lindsay says. The negotiations must be over. Michael puts down his tools, stands up, and goes to join her.

“Got a job for you,” says Lindsay. “Geoff and Jack here need some demolition charges, and they also need someone to rig them. Up for a little armed robbery?”

He's not, really, at least not with these assholes. “You think this is a good idea?” he asks Lindsay.

She shrugs. “I can't go with them. We're not going to be doing any more raids together until my leg's better, so you'll have to pick up the slack.”

“You'll get a cut of the take,” says Ramsey. “That's on top of what we're paying Lindsay for the gear.”

“So I'm, what, your way of keeping the price down?”

Hawaiian Shirt sighs. “Look, if you don't want in – ”

“I didn't say I didn't want in,” Michael says. “Business is business, right?”

Lindsay grins at him. Ramsey smiles too, and holds out his hand for Michael to shake. Michael notices the elaborate tattoos snaking out from under his sleeve to cover the back of his hand.

He has a feeling he's probably going to regret this decision, but he reaches out and shakes hands. “Okay. Let's do this.”


	5. Leet Skillz Required

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geoff has one more prospective recruit to interview, Jack has some misgivings, and Ray Narvaez Jr. has an Xbox and a pink gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's, uh, it's been a while. Yeaaaaahhh. Sorry. In good news, I am not dead, and neither is this fic. As always, thanks to Hexephra for being an awesome beta reader!

“All right, dickheads, listen up,” says Geoff.

They're in Geoff and Jack’s apartment, a couple of days later. Michael and Gavin are seated on the couch, jostling for space with both each other and the assortment of blankets and pillows that have been Gavin’s bed for the past few days. Gavin has his laptop perched on the arm of the couch and is typing away idly at something in between his attempts at engaging Michael in conversation. Michael, for his part, is trying to pretend that whatever is on Gavin’s screen doesn't interest him. Jack has decided she doesn't feel like cramming herself into the remaining couch space and watches them with some amusement from an arm chair.

Geoff doesn't sit. He paces.

“We've only got one shot at this, and we can't throw it away by running in there like idiots. We will not. Fuck. This. Up.” Geoff looks meaningfully at each of them in turn: Michael, then Gavin, then Jack. “That means planning. It means preparation. It means we need to be ready for anything that might happen in there. That's why we're all here today.” He points at Michael. “Has Lindsay got hold of the equipment yet?”

Michael shakes his head. “We've got some leads. There's a guy she knows who might be willing to sell, but she's still negotiating the deal.”

“Right. Make sure she tells me as soon as everything's settled. I want those explosives ready as soon as possible,” says Geoff.

Michael nods, but leans back into his seat muttering something about, “not a fucking miracle worker.”

Geoff turns to Gavin next. “All the tools and weapons in the world won't do dick if we can't find the fucking vault. How are those blueprints coming?”

“I'm working on it,” says Gavin, still with one eye on his laptop screen.

“That's a ’no’, isn't it?”

“I'm literally working on it right this second, Geoff.”

“Right, right.” Geoff sighs. “Well, until you get that done, I have another job for you. I need you and Michael to go down to Maze Bank and check the place out. Stay inconspicuous, but get whatever information you can - layout, security, camera placement, etcetera. Meanwhile, Jack and I will be meeting with our last recruit.”

“Why do I have to go with him?” Michael demands, at the same time as Gavin asks, “Wait, we have another recruit?”

“Yeah, this is news to me too, Geoff,” chimes in Jack, raising her eyebrows. She manages to keep her voice fairly level, but she can't prevent a hint of irritation from slipping in. She's heard nothing of this, after all. She and Geoff have worked together for a long time, and okay, he's impulsive, but he's never brought someone else in without so much as mentioning it to her first.

“Oh yeah, right.” Geoff makes a face that could almost be called apologetic. “Well, we still need someone else on crowd control, so I talked to Lester. Told him we needed an extra guy.”

“Uh-huh. And what did he want in return?”

“He charged me some bullshit finder's fee, so hopefully nothing else,” says Geoff. “Anyway, apparently the dude's done some work for him before and isn't utterly terrible.”

“High praise indeed.” Jack rolls her eyes.

“Well, we're on a tight budget.”

“True enough,” she says. It does make sense to bring in some more muscle. Michael is certainly intimidating, but he’ll be working on the vault. She and Geoff can handle themselves (she's not so certain about Gavin), but even so, they'll be spread awfully thin. And Lester is about as trustworthy as creepy old criminal geniuses go: he'd be risking his own reputation if the contact he sent them turned out to be unreliable - or worse, an LSPD plant. “So that's it? No catches?”

Geoff gets an awkward look on his face. “Well, there might have been some confusion where he thought I was looking for a male prostitute,” he admits. “I'm pretty sure we got that cleared up, though.”

Jack sighs and leans back in her chair, arms folded. “Great. So we're going to meet someone who is – according to Lester – not terrible, affordable, and possibly a rent boy. This is sounding better and better."

“Pretty much.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ, this is already such a fucking clusterfuck. You still haven't explained why I'm on a recon mission with the British idiot, by the way.”

“Oi!” Gavin gives an indignant squeak.

“Because Jack and I are busy, obviously,” says Geoff. “Also, I don't really want either of you wandering off on your own.”

“I can look after myself, you know!” says Gavin, sounding put out.

“Yeah, and I'm not a babysitter _or_ a liability,” says Michael.

“For Christ's sake,” Geoff complains, rubbing his forehead. “Just shut up and do your job, will you? We split up, do what we need to do, and then meet back here when we're done. Got it?”

***

“They're going to kill each other, you know,” says Jack, as they watch Michael and Gavin drive away in Michael’s Gauntlet.

“Not if they want to get paid, they're not,” says Geoff.

“Hmmph.” Jack gives a noncommittal shrug. She has a sour looking frown on her face as she unlocks her car and climbs into the driver’s seat. Geoff has his suspicions about why. He grins at her as he slides into the front passenger seat, but she's avoiding his gaze.

“The fuck is your problem?” he mutters, his smile falling away abruptly. Jack doesn't answer. If Geoff feels a twinge of guilt, well, he's had a lot of practice at ignoring that sort of thing. And the twisting feeling in his gut is probably just the remains of a hangover.

Neither of them speaks to the other as they pull out of the garage and down the street. Geoff breaks the silence briefly - “Here,” - to hand Jack a crumpled slip of paper with an address scrawled on it. She takes it, but gives no other indication that she's heard him.

It's not until they're waiting at their second intersection that Jack finally speaks. “You are a goddamn asshole, you know that?”

Geoff scoffs. “What? What'd I do?”

“You know damn well what you did. Why didn't you tell me about this guy earlier?”

“It's my crew, Jack, I can hire who I want.”

“Until like a week ago, your ‘crew’ consisted of two people,” she retorts. “I've been a Fake for as long as you have. It's as much my crew as it is yours.”

“I'm the one with the plan!” Geoff says, exasperated. “What, do you think we can do this with only four people? It's a fucking huge bank, at least two of us will be hitting the vault, I need you to be ready with the car, and I'm sure as dicks not leaving _Gavin_  on crowd control. We need someone who can handle it if things gets rough.”

“That's not the point. Geoff, we're supposed to be a team! You and I!” Jack exclaims. “I'm not some thug you hired. I get a say in the plan too.”

“Sure, that's why I'm bringing you to interview him.” Geoff looks at her face and sighs. “Look, I didn't think about it, okay? I figured you’d agree we need an extra guy. I'll tell you in advance next time. Happy?”

“Asshole,” says Jack, but her expression softens a little.

“…yeah, I know.”

***

The address is for a small house in El Burro Heights. It looks pretty much like every other house in the neighbourhood: tiny and run-down, with a scrubby patch of grass and overgrown bushes out front pretending to be a lawn.

Geoff steps confidently out of the car, making sure his shoulder holster is fully concealed beneath his jacket. This neighbourhood is part of the Marabunta Grande's territory, and while the street seems deserted, there's no sense in looking like he's there to start a fight. Not right away, at least.

Jack follows as he walks up to the front door and rings the bell. There is silence for a few moments, then the sound of muffled footsteps from inside.

The door opens a few inches. A light brown face with scruffy dark hair and black rimmed glasses peers through the crack. “Yo. You Lester's friends?”

“As much as Lester can be considered to have friends, yeah.”

“Cool.” The face breaks into a wry smile. “Come on in.”

The short hallway opens into the living room – small, curtains drawn, walls hung with posters. The carpet is old, worn and stained, scattered with articles of clothing and other piles of clutter, and the room stinks of weed. An open door leads to the kitchen, which Geoff can see is tiny even from here. Against one wall is a bookcase, though there aren't many books – just games and DVDs – and in front of that is the television, which looks more expensive than anything else in the room. It's hooked up to an Xbox, the screen showing the pause menu from Call Of Duty.

Their host is younger than Geoff expected him to be, a small and scrawny frame swamped by an oversized purple hoodie. “The name's Ray,” says the young man, as he flops down onto the battered couch. “Make yourselves at home.” He gestures for them to join him.

“Thanks.” The couch (like every other surface) is covered with empty takeout containers and cans of Mountain Dew. Geoff opts to remain standing.

Ray is already settled in front of his Xbox, controller in one hand and a joint in the other. If Geoff hadn't just seen him sit down, he'd think the kid had been in the same position for the last hour.

“Want some?” he asks, offering the joint to Geoff.

“Sure.” Geoff takes a drag – it's decent stuff; he wonders who Ray's dealer is – and offers it to Jack. She waves it away.

“No thanks; I'm driving.”

“That's cool.” Ray's not looking at them any more; his eyes are on the television, fingers moving fast as his avatar shoots at a wave of digital soldiers. “So, you're here about a job, yeah?”

There's an ashtray balanced precariously on the arm of the couch. Geoff nods as he sets the joint down there, carefully balancing it so it won't roll out and set fire to any empty pizza boxes. “Armed robbery. We need someone to do crowd control and Lester says you're a good shot.”

“Uh-huh.” Ray nods. On the television screen, an enemy’s head explodes into lovingly-rendered gore. Geoff waits for Ray to ask what the target is, but he's apparently too engrossed in his game. Geoff frowns in annoyance.

Behind him, Jack mutters, “You're _sure_ Lester understood what you were asking for?”

“Shut up,” Geoff hisses, elbowing her in the ribs. Ray doesn't seem to notice. This'll make him listen up, Geoff thinks. “The plan is to hit Maze Bank.”

No response.

Geoff scowls. This isn't the reaction he was expecting. “You think you can handle it? No offence, but you're a lot smaller than I expected and we're definitely going to run into resistance from aliens and purple unicorns, and Jesus fucking Christ, put the fucking game down and _listen_ to me – ”

The sound of the gunshot is deafening.

Jack and Geoff both immediately reach for their weapons. By the time they have them out, Ray's already lowering the bright pink pistol that Geoff didn't even see him draw.

“I heard you,” says Ray, his voice mild. He picks up the Xbox controller and goes back to his game.

Geoff looks at the far wall. There's a poster there for some forgettable action movie. The lead actor now has a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. It's smoking.

Jack looks at Geoff. “Holy shit.”

“The thing is,” Ray says, conversationally, “you don't need to be a big guy if you're good with a gun. And if Lester told you I'm a good shot, fucker was lying, because I'm the best sharpshooter in Los Santos. So, yeah, I think I can handle it.” He picks up the joint and takes a deep drag, leaning back comfortably. “Also, I’m a parkour master.”

***

“That was... interesting,” says Jack, as they walk back to the car.

“It went better than I expected, to be honest,” says Geoff, fishing around in his pocket for his phone. “Wonder if the recon team's finished sucking each other's dicks.” He finds the phone, unlocks it, and calls Gavin.

The phone rings several times before anyone picks up.

"Hello?"

"Gavin. Give me a progress report."

“Geoff!” Gavin sounds flustered – more so than usual, anyway. There's some sort of commotion going on in the background. Geoff is immediately nervous.

“What's going on over there? You get the info?”

“Yeah, yeah, no problem – well, there might be a little snag...”

“What?”

“Look, dont go mental, all right – ” Gavin begins, before he's cut off by the sound of gunfire. Geoff can hear Michael yelling in the background: “Gavin, fucking help me out here!”

There is a loud crash and the call abruptly ends.

Geoff very slowly lowers the phone.

“Trouble?” Jack asks.

Geoff doesn't answer, just turns around, marches up to Ray's front door, and knocks loudly.

Ray answers after a few moments, looking confused. “Dude, weren't you just here?”

“Change of plans,” says Geoff. “We're going to need your skills sooner than expected.”


	6. Shooting From The Hip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael and Gavin case the joint. Things don't exactly go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to Hexephra for being the best beta reader a nerd could ask for.
> 
> Content Warning: Very brief reference to domestic abuse.

“Right, so you get a million dollars...”

They're in Michael's car, driving towards Maze Plaza. Well, not exactly driving. Right now, they're sitting in traffic, waiting for the lights to change.

“Okay...” Michael drums his fingers against the steering wheel. His voice is layered heavily with suspicion, waiting for the trick behind Gavin's question, but at least he’s not telling him to shut up. That seems like a good sign.

“A million dollars,” Gavin repeats. “In cash. You don't have to pay tax or anything.” He glances down at his laptop, which is perched precariously on his knees, and scrolls idly through another page of data. “But you have to legally change your name to, uh... Bobby Drillboids.”

Michael looks at him incredulously. “What? What kind of a dumb question is that?”

“Would you do it, though?”

“No! I'm not changing my name to fucking Bobby Drillboids!”

“Lot of money, though,” says Gavin. “Come on!” He grins, playfully elbowing Michael's ribs.

Michael shoves him away. “Do you actually _have_ a million dollars?”

“No.”

“Then I'm not changing my name. Now quit asking stupid questions.” The traffic light changes from red to green and they pull forwards, switching lanes as they go. For a moment the two of them sit in silence, Michael concentrating on the road, Gavin staring at the mess of information on his screen.

“What if it was Fidge Gunkhouse?”

“...shut the fuck up.” Michael sighs heavily. “Aren't you supposed to be hacking into the mainframe or whatever?”

“That's not exactly how this works,” says Gavin.

“Then why'd you bring that thing with you?” Michael says, gesturing with exasperation at Gavin's computer.

“Research.”

Getting a floor plan of the bank was surprisingly simple. Getting an accurate one, on the other hand, was proving to be nigh-on impossible. It didn't help that he had precious few contacts on this side of the Atlantic, save for a handful of names Geoff has provided him with. (“They owe me a few favours.”) So far, Gavin's best efforts have failed to get him anything with the location of the vault. He suspects it's below ground somewhere, on a floor that none of the blueprints show. Nor does he have any idea where the security cameras are placed. The bank staff probably doesn't check all of the cameras all of the time, but they’ll definitely hand the footage over to the authorities if the bank is robbed. Gavin doesn't fancy the idea of his picture ending up in the hands of the police, or worse: the media. Being arrested is less worrying than news of his location finding its way back to England; if it does then all his efforts to hide have been for nothing.

“Whatever.” Michael sighs, turning his attention back to the road. “I can't believe I have to babysit you.”

“Yeah? Well, I'm not thrilled about it either,” Gavin retorts. The contempt in Michael's voice touches a nerve: he's a fellow professional, not a child, and he doesn't need a babysitter. Except Geoff, apparently, thinks otherwise, and now it seems Michael does too. He wonders if his new boss doesn't trust him, or if he just doesn't think Gavin's capable of doing his job alone. “Look, this'll be simple, all right? We go in, we scout the place out, then we bugger off again. Easy.”

Michael scoffs. “Sounds boring.”

They turn right. Michael drives them up a ramp leading into a parking structure.

“It's not meant to be fun,” Gavin points out.

Michael isn't listening. Gavin hears him mutter something to himself as he searches for a parking space: "Fucking _Bobby Drillboids_..."

***

There is something exciting about it all, though, Gavin reflects as they leave the car. It's not all that different from shoplifting, really, but with significantly higher stakes and a bigger rush to match. What they're stealing right now is information. It might not be anothing tangible, but they are, in a metaphorical sense, coming out of this richer. And if the information turns out to be useful, they'll soon be richer in a literal sense, too.

He doesn't bother trying to explain this to Michael. His team-mate probably doesn't care for any job with fewer than three explosions involved.

It's a short walk to Maze Plaza. The surrounding streets are full of bankers in suits and rich people decked out in designer labels, hurrying from high-rise to high rise, from office to bank to coffee shop. Time is money, Gavin thinks, and this neighbourhood is obviously full of money. He fiddles with his collar, conscious of how grubby and rumpled his clothes are. Taking a deep breath, he tries to ignore the feeling that they stick out like a sore thumb. The first rule of blending in is to _act_ like you belong, he reminds himself. Have confidence and nobody will question you. He suspects, though, that if his scruffy appearance doesn't draw attention, the snarling wolf head painted on the back of Michael's leather jacket will.

One of the first things his research has shown is that practically every major business in Los Santos has its headquarters somewhere around here – really, a quick Google was all he needed to confirm that. Maze Bank is the biggest of them all, quite literally: the building, plaza, and gardens together take up an entire city block, and the Maze Bank Tower is the tallest building in the state. Most of the floors are offices, and looking through the blueprints for every single one of them makes for an extremely tedious experience.

Now, standing in front of the tower itself, Gavin feels more overwhelmed than bored. It's one thing to know that a building is ninety-six storeys tall, and quite another to look at that same building vanishing into the clouds above his head and know that it's full of advanced security systems that he has to outwit.

Michael cuts into his reverie by elbowing him sharply in the ribs.

“Ow!”

“Close your mouth, will you? You look like a fucking moronic tourist.”

Michael probably has a point. Gavin rearranges his expression into something more neutral as they head towards the bank.

***

They walk through the automatic doors. Gavin realises at the last moment that he's still wearing sunglasses and pushes them up into his hair. This is not the time to have the security guards think he has something to hide. He'll just have to hope that the bruising on his face has faded enough by now to avoid notice. Then again, there are probably enough rich bastards around here who beat their wives, so maybe they'll just think he's a battered boyfriend or something.

The foyer is impressive – clean and modern, brightly lit and tiled in white marble. A security guard stands by the doors they've just walked through, solid and impassive enough that he might as well also have been built out of stone. Gavin carefully avoids looking directly at him. To the left is a row of ATMs set into a recess in the wall, red velvet ropes of the kind one might see around a museum exhibit helpfully marking off the area intended for queueing. To the right is a waiting area comprised of a few red leather chairs and a glass coffee table, a few magazines artfully arranged on top. Just beyond that is an information desk staffed by an immaculate looking woman – mid-twenties, blonde hair in a tight bun, dead eyes behind the bright smile. Behind her, mounted on the wall, is a great red effigy of the Maze Bank logo, probably six or seven feet in height at least, just in case anyone forgot where they were.

Ahead, Gavin can see a number of white marble counters furnished with pens on chains, deposit slips, and leaflets extolling the virtues of starting an account with Maze Bank, and another, larger, queueing area in front of one wall: that must be where the tellers are. If he cranes his neck a little he can see them, serving the public through thick glass windows that Gavin's research suggests are bulletproof. There's a door in the back wall, another security guard standing beside it.

Gavin nudges Michael towards the ATMs. Michael gives him a look of irritated bewilderment, but then gets the hint and goes to stand at the only free one. Gavin meanwhile heads towards the human tellers – assuming they are in fact human and that Maze Bank hasn't used its considerable financial means to build a staff of androids – and gets in line. There are several people in the queue in front of him, but that's all right. He's British; he knows how to queue.

Besides, this gives him more time to look around. He scans the area and counts two security cameras trained on the doors, one at the line of ATMs, one behind the reception desk, two – no, three – above the teller windows, and two more on the far wall. Nine cameras, then, and those are just the ones he can see.

Casually, on what he hopes is the nearest camera's blind side, he reaches into his pocket. His fingers close around his phone. Slowly, he inches it upwards, until just the top edge is sticking out from his pocket, and silently thanks his previous self for buying a phone with an external button for the back camera.

He takes several pictures this way. It's impossible to tell right now if any of them are any good, though he hopes that he's got at least some of the security cameras in shot. The line moves forward and Gavin slides his phone back into his jeans, not wanting to push his luck.

Eventually he reaches the front of the queue and steps up to the nearest counter. The teller looks as dead inside as the receptionist, but without the fake smile. There are another two cameras on the wall behind her – Gavin suspects these ones are intended to keep an eye on the staff more than the customers. There's also another door. It's unguarded, but short of breaking the glass – or the wall – between him and the teller, he can't see a way to get to it.

“Hi, how can I help you?”

“Yeah, hi, I'd like to open an account.” It's the best Gavin can come up with on the spot. Since he doesn't have an account here – hell, he doesn't even have an account in this _country_ – it's not like he can say he's making a deposit.

“You'll need to speak to Janine,” says the teller, pointing at the woman behind the reception desk. “This line is for deposits and withdrawals only.”

“Ah – right,” says Gavin. “Sorry to bother you.” He gives the teller an apologetic smile and walks away.

Of course, now he has to speak to Janine, in case the teller watches him leave. He walks up to the reception desk, ignoring the glare he gets from Michael, who has finished with the ATM and is now lounging, bored, on one of the red sofas.

“Hi, welcome to Maze Bank. Can I help you?” The receptionist's name tag really does say Janine. Up close, he's not so certain she's in her twenties; she's either had a lot of botox or her tight hairstyle is severely pulling back the skin on her forehead. Gavin remembers a similar look being popular with the girls at his secondary school, so maybe she's young after all.

“I'd like to open an account here. That lady said I should talk to you?” He gestures vaguely at the tellers.

“Of course, sir,” says Janine, “What's your name, please?”

“Mark Nutt,” says Gavin, remembering the fake passport.

“Okay.” Janine types something into her computer. “I'll need to see your passport, an ID card, or a San Andreas driver's licence, please, and two proofs of address.”

Well, that would be a problem if he actually wanted to open an account. He only owns one of those things, and it's a forgery. Gavin makes a show of patting his pockets. “Uh, I don't think I've got all that on me, sorry.”

Janine's brow creases a minute amount, which is probably the best it can manage. “I'm afraid I can't open an account for you if you don't have proof of your identy, sir.” She says it slowly, no doubt thinking that he's not very bright.

“Right, sorry, sorry... I'll, uh, come back tomorrow then. Sorry to waste your time.”

“That's no problem, sir,” says Janine, fake smile back in place. “Have a nice day, and thank you for choosing Maze Bank.”

“You done?” Michael asks in a low voice as Gavin hurries away from Janine.

Gavin nods.

“Great, let's get out of here.” Michael stands and strides back towards the doors. “Can't believe I had to sit there doing _nothing_ for twenty minutes...”

“It wasn't that long,” says Gavin, as they step outside into the San Andreas sunshine.

“Fucking felt like it. What were you talking to the receptionist for?”

Gavin sighs. “I nearly trapped myself into setting up a bank account.”

“...what?”

“Long story.” They pass by the ornamental fountain – a round pool with a very modern sculpture in the centre that is, as far as he can see, basically a big red cube. Gavin pauses for a moment, then digs around in his pocket for a coin. He finds one, then tosses it into the fountain. It hits the water with a satisfying sploosh, then slowly sinks, glinting prettily as the sunlight catches it. Maybe it'll bring them luck, Gavin thinks. Probably not, but it can't hurt to try.

He glances back at the bank doors. Might as well get a picture of the entrance too. He gets his phone out again.

“Dude, what are you doing now? Fucking hurry up!” Michael shouts, just as Gavin's lining up the shot. Gavin jumps, nearly dropping his phone in surprise.

“Coming!” he calls, hurriedly pressing the camera button and racing after Michael, who is already halfway across the plaza and shows no intention of waiting.

***

“About fucking time,” says Michael, as Gavin slides into the passenger seat. Gavin turns his laptop back on as Michael accelerates out of the parking structure.

That's the security camera placement sorted, he thinks. Vault location... still no sodding clue. Well, that's not quite true: at least one of the doors he saw probably leads there eventually. Behind the tellers and downwards would be a good guess, but he doesn't know if that will satisfy Geoff.

A cheerful electronic noise alerts him to a new email message. Surprised, he opens it. The address is a jumble of random characters and there's no subject line. He's about to delete it as spam when he glances at the contents and freezes.

_heard u need a way through the maze  
<3_

He frowns, his lips silently forming the words as he reads. “Wha – ”

The car swerves sharply. Gavin is thrown forward in his seat, nearly smashing his head against the dashboard. He gets briefly strangled by his seatbelt instead and has to clutch desperately at his laptop to stop it tumbling into the footwell.

“Bloody hell, Michael!” he says, rubbing his neck – when another jolt knocks him sideways. This one comes with a loud metallic crunch and he realises that someone has crashed into them.

“Shit!” Michael cranes his head out of the window, yelling at the car behind them. “Hey, fuckface! You trying to run me off the fucking road here?”

The response comes in the form of a gunshot.

Michael hurriedly retracts his head. “Okay, so apparently the answer is yes.” He turns the wheel desperately, veering out of the way as the other car tries to rear-end them again.

More gunshots shatter the back window. Gavin ducks forward as shards of broken glass painfully pepper the back of his neck. “They're shooting at us!” he exclaims.

“Thank you, Gavin, I noticed that,” Michael responds drily.

“I've been in this country for _three flipping weeks_ and I've already been shot at _twice_ ,” Gavin mutters, risking a look behind them. As far as he can tell they're being chased by a bunch of arseholes in a sports car.

“Welcome to America.” Michael cuts across two lanes of traffic and drives the wrong way through an intersection, ignoring the frantically beeping horns that follow him. Gavin watches as the sports car crashes into a very unfortunate Issi.

His relief is short-lived; whoever is chasing them recovers quickly. The other car is faster than Michael's Gauntlet and is soon right behind them. Gavin gives an involuntary scream as their pursuers unleash another barrage of gunfire.

“Shitting fucking ass-lickers...” Michael grumbles to himself. He looks over at Gavin. “Hey, make yourself useful and shoot back, will you?”

“With what?” Gavin feels panic setting in. He doesn't have a gun. He has never in his life owned a gun. Before, if anyone had to do any shooting, Dan was the one who handled it. Gavin was just the intel guy; it wasn't his job to shoot people.

“With a gun, you stupid – oh, for fucks's sake.” Michael groans as he realises what Gavin is telling him. “God, you're so fucking British it's disgusting. Here.” He shifts around in his seat, angling his left hip towards Gavin as much as possible. “Point it and pull the trigger; front end goes towards the enemy, _not_ you; never fucking point it at me.”

Gavin awkwardly reaches over and pulls Michael's pistol from its holster. It's heavier than he expects it to be. He wishes Dan were here.

He rolls down the passenger window and leans out, aiming as best he can. Whoever is in the other car fires a shot before he has a chance and he ducks back inside with a yelp. He tries again. This time he manages to squeeze the trigger – it's stiff; he has to put all his strength into it. The gun jerks sideways as he fires, even though he's holding it steady with both hands. His ears ring from the sound. He knows before he looks that he hasn't hit anything near the other car.

He fires several more times. The third shot connects with the sports car's windshield, smashing through the glass. The car swerves erratically back and forth.

“I hit them!” Gavin exclaims, half in jubilation and half in surprise. “Michael, I hit them!”

“That's great, Gavin,” Michael says, not turning to look. “Now take out the fucking driver.”

“Uh, right.” The other driver is very much not taken out. Gavin can see that he's regained control of his vehicle and is accelerating sharply towards them. This time Gavin has just enough warning to brace for the impact. Even so, he slides forward in his seat and his laptop finally clatters to the floor; he can't keep hold of it and the gun at the same time. Beside him, Michael is cursing under his breath as he frantically tries to get the car back on course.

Gavin shakes his head, trying to focus as he lines up another shot. He's aware, dimly, that he's terrified. His hands are shaking, his palms so slick with sweat that for a moment he worries he might drop the gun out the window. But it feels distant somehow, as though he's watching himself have these feelings without actually experiencing them. He aims and fires repeatedly. Two bullets strike the hood of the other car, the rest go wide – the last of them flies off somewhere to the right as he dives back inside the car to avoid the returning fire. He feels something graze his shoulder, hot and sharp, and can't tell if it's a bullet or broken glass. He hears himself cry out. Michael turns towards him for a split second; Gavin's not sure if his expression is one of concern or annoyance.

In the midst of the noise and chaos, the deafening crack of gunfire and the screaming of tires, Gavin realises he can hear his phone ringing. Acting automatically, he digs it out of his pocket and answers. “Hello?”

“Gavin. Give me a progress report.”

“Geoff!” For a moment, Gavin can't think why Geoff would be calling him, then remembers they're in the middle of a job.

Geoff apparently notices Gavin's confusion, because his tone becomes sharp and urgent. “What's going on over there? You get the info?”

“Yeah, yeah, no problem.” It's not a lie. There was no problem getting the info. The pictures are right here on his phone. But Geoff can no doubt hear the noise going on around them. “Well, there might be a little snag...”

Geoff shouts something in response, but it's drowned out by gunshots. Michael gives a cry that could be pain or anger, Gavin isn't sure, and the car once again swerves wildly.

“Gavin, I need some fucking cover fire!” Michael says through gritted teeth.

Gavin speaks hurriedly into the phone. Now is not really the time for explanations. “Look, don't go mental, all right – ”

Another series of gunshots, another jolt as the car skids sideways. Gavin's phone goes flying out of his hand. “Bollocks!”

“Gavin!” Michael sounds panicked now. “Fucking help me out here!”

Gavin nods. “Right!” Geoff can wait a few minutes. Gavin fumbles for the gun.

The other car crashes into them again, heavily and decisively. Gavin is knocked sideways and looks up in time to see the scenery go past as they careen off the road. The last thing he hears is Michael screaming swear words before the world becomes nothing but noise and darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit about British people and queuing is from the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy movie. It is extremely true and I could not resist using it here.


End file.
